


Threads

by wilddragonflying



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: (lyrium is what that’s referring to but better safe than sorry), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All the androids are mages, Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Drug Use, Elf Connor, Human Hank Anderson, M/M, Markus is an escaped saarebas, Saarebas, Saarebas Connor, Saarebas Niles, Templar Hank Anderson, The Android Revolution is the Mage Revolution, self-deprecating thoughts, the deviant hunters are Saarebas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:09:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilddragonflying/pseuds/wilddragonflying
Summary: After the Blight, apostates are becoming more and more common in southern Thedas. Spread thin, the Templars ask for help from the Qun, who oblige with Connor and Niles, their two most powerful Saarebas. Trained practically from birth to hunt bas-saarebas, they are the perfect apostate hunters, the perfect complements to the Templars at the forefront of the force attempting to regain control.The quill of fate is poised over their story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame all the enablers in the HCRBB discord; I was SUPPOSED to be working on my RBB fic, but NO, we started talking about Dragon Age AUs and then THIS happened.
> 
> You’re all horrible enablers and I love you.

The air of the Storm Coast is cold against his cheeks, far colder than that of Par Vollen, and it cools the metal about his throat to uncomfortable temperatures, as well. Connor shivers, wraps the borrowed robe tighter about himself, shifts closer to his brother, and makes a note to find clothing better suited to the climate of Fereldan than the scraps of cloth that were perfectly suitable for the temperate climes of the lands held by the Qun. The salty spray coming over the railing of the ship tastes _wild_ on his lips, and Connor carefully licks the taste of it away, mindful of the stitches keeping his mouth almost completely shut.

His arvaarad, Amanda, barks out an order accompanied by a gesture, and Connor obeys without thought, making his way carefully down the gangplank to the dock, coming to stand next to Amanda in front of the Templars gathered, waiting, his brother coming to stand at his side. “Our most talented saarebas, as promised,” his handler says, a proud smile on her face. “These two are well-trained, and more powerful than any apostate you might ever come across.”

The man Connor recognizes from the informational sketches as Knight-Commander Fowler nods. “You have our thanks, Arvaarad Stern. The apostate problem has grown larger than we anticipated, to our great regret, and it is our hope that Connor and Niles will be the turning point in the battle against them.”

“They will be,” Amanda promises, a hand resting between Connor’s shoulder blades; he knows that her other mirrors the positioning on Niles's back. “Who will be their Arvaarads while they are in your lands? I am needed in Par Vollen, else I would stay with them.”

Commander Fowler gestures to the men beside him, an older man in Templar armor and a younger one with a large scar across his nose, neither of whom look terribly pleased to be here. “Knight-Captain Anderson, one of my oldest and most experienced knights. He has hunted apostates and maleficarum for years, and is the most fluent besides myself in hand signs. I have chosen him to work with Connor. And Knight-Lieutenant Reed, I believe, will work well with Niles. He is younger, but skilled and dedicated, and has proven himself many times over.”

Connor watches Knight-Captain Anderson intently, curiously; he’d seen the same reports that Amanda had, of course. Only one failure in his career, one escaped apostate - a young child. With an otherwise impressive record, Captain Anderson was a good choice to lead the hunt for the missing apostates. He carries himself well, Connor notes; a steady confidence, not arrogance like the set of Knight-Lieutenant Reed’s shoulders. Anderson’s hands rest at his sides, a shield strapped to his back and a sword at his waist, though his hands touch neither for the moment. His attention flits from Amanda to Connor and then to the surrounding coast, a constant vigil that speaks of either paranoia or preparedness.

There is a gauntness to his face that Connor cannot immediately place, that, irrationally, makes him _concerned_ for the Knight-Captain he does not know. There are creases about his eyes, hidden in the weathered lines of his face, that speak to a man who is no stranger to happiness - but suggests that they are, at the moment, distant friends.

“We have read your reports on Knight-Captain Anderson and Knight-Lieutenant Reed, and I concur with your assessment that they will be the best to work with Connor and Niles,” Amanda says after a moment’s tense silence. The hand between his shoulder blades pushes, and Connor steps forward readily, if slightly shakily - his legs are still wobbly, used to the rocking of the ship. Beside him, Niles's steps are only slightly steadier. “Knight-Captain Anderson, the rune that controls Connor’s collar.” She holds out a flat disk, and Connor can’t help but shift on his feet, leaning just slightly away from the rune and the way it makes his collar vibrate uncomfortably.

“Rune?” Anderson asks, brows drawing together in a frown.

“Yes. Break it, and it activates the collar around Connor’s neck.”

Anderson steps forward, takes the rune with careful fingers. “And what does the collar do?”

“It blocks his magic,” Amanda says matter-of-factly. “Should something happen and you be separated or, unlikely as it is, he loses control, the collar will act as a failsafe. It is… an enhanced version of your own abilities as a Templar.”

Anderson studies the rune for a moment, glances at Connor, his gaze settling on the collar, lifting to his lips, and then meets his gaze. Anderson nods then, tucking the rune away into a pocket. “Thank you. I understand the trust you are extending, allowing a Saarebas to operate outside of Par Vollen without true Arvaarad supervision. We will do everything in our power to be worthy of it.”

“I am sure you will. Knight-Lieutenant Reed, the rune for Niles's collar." Connor can hear the pleased smile in her tone without looking. “Take good care of them, Connor, Niles - we will expect reports in the usual manner.”

Connor turns, gives Amanda a nod and a bow - and then moves to stand next to his new Arvaarad, watching as Amanda turns back to the ship. Beside him, Anderson grunts something; when Connor looks, he’s already turned towards shore. “Come on, then,” he mutters, moving without looking at Connor, clearly expecting him to keep up. “Let’s get you back to the camp, figure out where to start with this shitshow.”

* * *

“ _Andraste’s tits,_ what the fuck do they have you wearing?”

Connor glances down at himself, the ropes wrapped around his arms, chest, and waist. _I am wearing a modified version of the usual saarebas outfit,_ he signs. _Is there a problem?_

“Usual… I’m guessing that next word was ‘saarebas’? Yeah, there’s a fucking problem.” Anderson sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll need to get you some proper robes, shit. You’ll catch pneumonia and die, and then the Qun is going to attack us for letting their saarebas die in our care.” He glances back at Connor, a scowl on his face. “Alright, come with me. Let’s see if there’s something the quartermaster has that we can stick on you for now.”

Connor nods, following Anderson through the camp to the open tent surrounded by and filled with equipment of various kinds. “Ben!” Anderson barks, waiting until an older man sticks his head out. “I need some robes or mail or something to stick on the kid so he doesn’t freeze his ass off. Got anything we can use?”

“Probably,” Ben says, eyeing Connor thoughtfully. Connor has to fight not to fidget under the scrutiny, his grip on his staff shifting anxiously. “I don’t think I’ve got any _robes,_ but I’ve got something… Let me grab it for you.”

Anderson and Connor stand in an uncomfortable silence while Ben is gone; when he returns, handing a bundle of leather to Anderson, Anderson grunts a thanks to him before leading the way back towards his tent. Connor inclines his head towards Ben - Niles had told him once how frightening they looked, smiling with the thread across their lips, and the last thing he wants to do is frighten someone on the first day he is in the Templars’ camp - before following Anderson.

“Looks like it’s all pretty adjustable, no need to go getting the blacksmith involved,” Anderson says, eyeing the mail and clothing laid out over one of the chests in his tent with a critical eye. “If that mail needs adjusting, I can do it for you.” He turns to Connor then, gestures towards the new clothing. “Well, go ahead and try it on.”

Connor hesitates before carefully leaning his staff against a chest, turning so that Anderson can see his hands. _Can you help me with the ropes? Antaam-saar is not meant to be removed often._

Anderson’s face flushes, and Connor does his best not to stare as the older man splutters before sighing, his face still red despite the cool air. “Alright, fine. Where do I untie you?”

 _The main knot is at the nape of my neck,_ Connor tells him, turning so that Anderson can see for himself.

“Maker’s balls, I hope you don’t ever ask me to get you _into_ this shit, kid, because it’s not going to end well,” Anderson mutters, stepping up behind Connor, close enough that Connor can feel an extra chill from his armor, his skin prickling at the feeling. “Alright, here goes nothing. You’ve still got your tongue, last I knew, so make a noise if I hurt you, alright?”

Connor nods, holding himself as still as possible as Anderson’s fingers brush the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, the top of his spine as he works the knot loose. He lets out a breath as the ropes loosen, allowing himself to relax slightly as well. Anderson’s hands are warm against his neck, even though they barely touch him, and Connor has to fight to keep from leaning back, chasing the warmth.

“There,” Anderson grunts, armor shifting as he steps back. “Can you get out of that?”

Connor lifts his shoulder, wriggles both of them experimentally, and then nods as the ropes fall down his arms, quickly finding the ends and unraveling the intricate weave about his body. He lets the scrap of cloth about his chest fall free without a thought to modesty - at least until Anderson makes another strangled noise, and Connor looks at him in concern.

Anderson’s face is red again, ruddy, and he appears to be very determinedly looking anywhere except at Connor. Connor frowns, stepping to the side just enough to make eye contact with Anderson, to ask, _Is something wrong?_

“ _No,_ ” Anderson barks, face turning impossibly redder. “No, there’s - nothing’s wrong, for the love of Andraste. Nothing you need to worry about, alright? Just - Just get dressed, the sooner the better.” Connor frowns, but obeys; as he turns away, he thinks he hears Anderson mutter something about ‘goddamn elves,’ and he resists the urge to touch his ears self-consciously, instead reaching for the soft cotton shirt that Ben had provided. He pulls it over his head, stretching the fabric about the metal of his collar, making sure it sits properly before he reaches for the mail, pulling it over his head as well.

After the mail comes the pants, and those Connor can remove by himself, ignoring what sounds like Anderson swallowing his own tongue behind him as he does so. He pulls on the new trousers, smiling at the feel of the warmer fabric about his legs. He does up the laces quickly before reaching for the leather coat, pulling it over his arms just as quickly, smiling as he turns back to face Anderson. _Well, how do I look?_

Anderson himself looks like Connor had just slapped him - he’s staring at Connor, mouth slightly open, and he can’t seem to focus on any one part for long. Eventually, however, he clears his throat. “You look fine,” he says roughly. “Less like a foreigner, anyway. There should be a hook for your staff on the coat, so you don’t have to carry it in your hand all the time.”

Connor glances over his shoulder, sees the hook in question, and reaches for his staff, freezing when Anderson’s hand covers his own on the grip. Anderson’s hand is larger than his own, the palm calloused, warm where it covers the back of his hand, and Connor can’t do anything but stare at it.

“May I?” Anderson says, his voice _right_ in Connor’s ear, making him jump. He looks at Anderson with wide eyes, his confusion clear in his expression, and Anderson nods towards the staff. “I haven’t seen workmanship like this before.”

Connor swallows before slowly withdrawing his hand, suppressing a shiver at the feel of Anderson’s skin against his. Saarebas aren’t touched much under the Qun, and if Anderson is going to be a physical person, then Connor is not sure how he is going to be able to concentrate on his job.

Anderson handles Connor’s staff carefully, expertly. He tests the balance, runs a hand to the top, over the purple, electric core, making a surprised noise when he finds the blades that encircle it. He looks at Connor questioningly. _Sometimes enemies get too close for magic to be effective,_ Connor says by way of explanation, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. _I asked for a way to defend myself and Par Vollen’s blacksmiths provided. The blade at the bottom is just as sharp._

Anderson flips the staff, testing the other blade in question, and nods in satisfaction. “We’ll have to spar soon,” he says, holding the staff out to Connor, who takes it. “If we’re going to work together, I need to know what you’re capable of.”

Connor hesitates, a spark of magic traveling up his staff and binding it to the hooks at the back of his coat, leaving his hands free to ask, _Does that include magic?_

“Yes.” Anderson is watching him carefully now, just as carefully as Connor is watching him. “I need to know _exactly_ what you’re capable of, Connor. Reports are a good starting point, but they don’t tell me everything I need to know if we’re going to fight together, if I’m going to trust you to hunt down apostates and fight against them.”

Connor sets his jaw, frowning heavily despite how it pulls at his stitches. _I have been raised to hunt bas-saarebas ever since the strength of my magic was discovered. I have no other purpose in life._

“What do you mean by - “ Here, Anderson mimics the motions that Connor used to form the word ‘bas-saarebas,’ and Connor frowns, confused. “Is it similar to apostates?” He makes another motion as he says the last word, and after a moment Connor makes the connection.

 _Yes,_ he answers, nodding. _Mages without direction, without control._

“Huh.” Anderson mimics the motions for bas-saarebas again, watching as Connor does, correcting him. “Well. We still need to spar. Tomorrow, though; we’re heading inland, towards Denerim, today, trying to get off this Maker-forsaken coast and out of the rain before nightfall.” He eyes Connor critically. “For today, you can ride in the wagon, at least until we’re out of the mountains and you’re not wobbling like a newborn colt.”

Connor frowns, thinks briefly about being offended, but then sighs. _Very well. I will help break camp, though. I will not walk better without walking at all._

That earns him a barked laugh, and something that might be approval passes briefly over Anderson’s expression. “No, no you won’t. Alright then, let’s get started with this tent, then we’ll go see what else needs to be done.”


	2. Chapter 2

Connor and Niles turned out to be actually helpful in breaking down the camp, to Hank’s surprise. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised, though; the Qun was big on people knowing their place, but if that place included long days and nights on the roads, even the saarebas needed some more mundanely useful skills. It’s an adjustment, having to make sure that he can see Connor’s hands whenever he asks him something, waiting until his hands are free to get a reply.

“There’s really no other way for you to speak?” Hank asks curiously when they’re alone by the cart at one point; Connor’s eyes go wide, body tense with something almost like fear, and he shakes his head just a beat too late to be the whole truth. Still, Hank lets it drop for the moment, tucking the reaction away for later consideration.

Once camp is broken, the company heads out, following the road south. They’re walking, the majority of their horses left at the main camp in favor of saving space on the Storm Coast while they waited for the Qunari ship to arrive. Connor and Niles walk with them for a while, eventually taking a place in the cart when they start lagging enough to be noticeable - but as soon as they’re past the worst of the mountains, Connor’s hopping out once more, walking beside Hank, his eyes wide as he takes in the scenery.

“You ever been outside of Qun lands before?”

 _Never,_ is the answer. _I was born and raised there, as was Niles. We traveled through their lands, but never outside._

“Huh.” Hank glances around, the view of Fereldan from the mountains striking him anew as he looks at it with the eyes of someone who’s never seen it before. “It’s a nice place, scenery-wise, anyway. People could use some work.”

Connor snorts. _People can always use work,_ he counters, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he glances at Hank. _That is part of our job, is it not?_

Hank huffs out a breath. “Yeah, I suppose so. Watch your step going down this part of the trail, you slip and I won’t be able to catch you.”

* * *

“ _Fuck!_ ” Hank snatches the already-flaming bedroll from beside the fire, stomping it out with a vengeance - a rush of cold beside him covers the other bedrolls too late to save them for anything besides scraps. When Hank glances over, he sees Niles watching him with impassive eyes, his hand outstretched, a few snowflakes falling from his hand before he lowers it once more. Growling under his breath, Hank whirls on Reed. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking, setting these down so close to the fire?”

“I didn’t see where they landed!” Reed snaps back, defensive as he squares his shoulders, and Hank’s own straighten in answer as he glares at Reed.

“And why not?” he growls.

“Because I was talking to the saarebas I’m supposed to be looking after,” Reed retorts, hands clenching into fists. “Y’know, making conversation, getting to know him, making sure he’s not a danger to himself or anyone else here.”

“ _Reed,_ ” Hank starts, stopping when he feels a hand land on his shoulder; when he glances over, he sees Connor standing next to him.

 _Scolding him does no good, and he was only doing his job, if a bit overzealously,_ Connor says once he has Hank’s attention. _What’s done is done. Are there any spares?_

“No,” Hank mutters, tossing another glare Reed’s way for good measure. “But that’s Chris’s fault, at least.”

 _Then we shall have to share until we can find more,_ Connor says, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable solution.

“ _What?_ ” his and Reed’s voices overlap, echoing off of the cliff that their camp is backed up against.

“Absolutely not,” Reed spits. “I don’t share, especially not with a strange _mage._ ”

Something about Niles’s eyes tightens, but before Hank can say anything, he and Connor have a rapid-fire exchange, far too quick for Hank to keep up with. Then Connor turns back to Hank and says, _Using our antaam-saar and some of your and Reed’s spare shirts, we can fashion a makeshift bedroll, but we’ve only enough material for one. You and I would still need to share, if you are amenable to that._

Hank sighs. “Fine,” he mutters. “Just - get it done, make sure Reed doesn’t destroy any more supplies. Full permission to use any cold magic you need to put out any fires he might start, long as no one gets hurt.”

Connor smiles at him, something small but impactful nonetheless; it hits him somewhere in the gut, and not entirely because of the dull blue thread criss-crossing his lips. Hank doesn’t know what else to do besides nod, turning his back on the trio and stalking away to go talk to Ben about when they might be able to pick up some new bedrolls.

* * *

“Still think this is a good idea?” Hank asks dryly, arms crossed over his chest as he watches Connor look nervously at the single bedroll in their tent.

Connor sets his jaw, nods. _Yes. Better that Knight-Lieutenant Reed take the roll we made._ He offers Hank another smile, and Hank ignores the way his heart trips over itself in his chest; probably just a funny reaction to the spice Chris had used in dinner that night. _Thank you for insisting that he give Niles his bedroll._

Hank snorts out a laugh. “I should’ve made him do it anyway, and then taken the one you and your brother made for you to use, make him sleep on the ground for being so careless with the only spare bedrolls we had,” he says, smirking at the memory of Reed’s affronted spluttering when Hank had told him what to do.

 _Well, thank you for not doing that; I have a feeling he would have tried to take it out on my brother, and that would have made our work here more difficult._ Connor gives him another small smile before stepping over the bedroll, laying his staff down carefully on one side of the bed, and starts shedding the coat.

Swallowing hard and taking the cue, Hank starts removing his own armor, carefully wiping each piece down; when he glances over at Connor, he’s already settled on the bedroll, attention focused on a book in his lap. Hank’s hands continue moving automatically as he studies the mage on his bedroll. Connor is… disarming, he decides. The threads are distinctive, but even without them, Hank knows he would find Connor intriguing regardless.

Hank has to swallow down the bile that threatens to rise in his throat at the voice in the back of his head that reminds him that Connor is exactly the type of mage that he would’ve pursued back when he patrolled the Circle. _Different times,_ he reminds himself, forcing his gaze back to his work, away from the alluring flicker of torchlight across Connor’s face.

Once he’s certain his armor is taken care of properly, Hank turns his attention to his sword and shield, ensuring that they’re still in good condition, with nothing that Tina needs to take a look at. After that’s taken care of, Hank has no more excuses. With an only slightly-exaggerated groan, he pushes himself to his feet, shuffles towards the bedroll, and gestures towards Connor. “Scoot,” he grunts.

Eyes wide, Connor does as bid, sliding over to make room for Hank on the roll. Hank lowers himself with protesting joints to lay on the bedroll, tugging the blanket and fur up over his chest before sighing once more. “Good night,” he mutters, glancing at Connor only long enough to see him sign _Good night,_ in return before he closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

It takes longer than he would have liked, but eventually, dreams claim him. He finds himself on a small island when he opens his eyes in the dreams, knows that he’s dreaming by the fog that surrounds him, swirling and green. He’s never been here before, he doesn’t think, and after a moment’s consideration he starts walking along the shore.

All in all, it’s a supremely boring dream; at one point, he thinks he hears footsteps, but when they fade out again, he reasons that they must have belonged to whoever was on watch passing too close to the tent.

Eventually, the dream fades into something more nonsensical, something nebulous - but the island stays with him.


	3. Chapter 3

When Connor wakes, it takes him a moment to realize why - he feels warm, almost uncomfortably so. It’s not until Anderson’s arm tightens around his waist when he attempts to roll over on the bedroll that he remembers the events of the day before, and freezes in place.

Connor takes careful stock of himself, releasing a slow, careful breath as he does so. He’s lying on his side, and is surprised to realize that he’s not curled into the tight shape he normally sleeps in. Despite feeling overheated, Connor actually feels _rested,_ which is odd for traveling on the road. And he dreamed - rare to begin with, almost unheard of while traveling for him. He wracks his brain, trying to remember his dream, and then frowns when he does. He’d been on an island, the same island that he usually travels to at night in Par Vollen, but there had been someone else…

The Knight-Captain.

Anderson had been there; Connor had recognized his profile as he’d made his way towards shore, intent on seeing if Niles was also dreaming. But instead, he’d seen the Knight-Captain standing there, a bemused expression upon his face - far too lucid. Connor is certain he’d left before the Knight-Captain had seen him, but the fact that _he_ had seen Anderson…

Connor frowns heavily, staring at the dark wall of the tent. That could be… _concerning._ Connor and Niles had long ago perfected the process of dreaming together, sharing the words that they couldn’t awake, training together and defending each other when the occasional demon wandered too close to their dreams in the Fade. Connor had never dreamed with another before, and he certainly had no idea how Anderson would react should it happen again, should he see Connor in his dreams.

Troubled, it takes Connor quite a while to relax back into sleep; dawn is still a ways off, and they’ve a long distance to travel after breakfast.

* * *

When Connor wakes next, light is filtering through the cloth walls of the tent. He comes to consciousness as quickly as ever - and realizes three things in very quick succession.

First: Knight-Captain Anderson appears to be _cuddling_ him, with one arm around his waist, his breath ghosting across the collar around Connor’s neck, and his legs entwined with Connor’s.

Second: Anderson is incredibly aroused; Connor can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against his ass.

Third: Connor himself is just as aroused. This last is, perhaps, the most unsettling; Connor has no body to press his cock against, after all. He has no excuse.

Outside of the tent, there is the sounds of the rest of the camp stirring, and Connor debates with himself over what to do. He doubts he could sneak out of Anderson’s sleepy embrace without resorting to magic, which he is reluctant to do to his new arvaarad - Templars are notorious for reacting without thinking to unexpected magic use. But he also does not want to wake Anderson and face that potential embarrassment; even if Anderson does not notice his arousal, Connor still knows it happened, knows how he reacted to Anderson’s proximity.

In the end, the choice is taken from him when Anderson wakes himself, stirring with an annoyed-sounding groan behind Connor. Anderson grumbles to himself, shifting on the bedroll - and then he freezes, arm locked tight around Connor’s waist.

Connor can all but hear the man’s brain working, and he hesitates before clearing his throat, letting Anderson know that he’s awake as well.

Anderson swears violently, rolling off of the other side of the bedroll and to his feet; by the time Connor flips onto his back, Anderson is shoving his boots on and heading for the entrance of the tent. Connor makes no attempt to stop him; his own cheeks are aflame, and he’d seen the ruddiness beneath Anderson’s beard that betrayed his own embarrassment. He supposes there’s some measure of comfort to be taken in the fact that they were equally compromised by their unconscious bodies, though it’s difficult to think about for too long.

Connor seriously considers using some cold magic on himself in an attempt to regain control over his face, but after a few moments, that proves unnecessary. Connor dresses quickly with efficient movements, clipping his staff into place before he ventures out of the tent.

Anderson in nowhere to be seen in the bustle outside, but Niles spots Connor quickly, waving him over to where he and Reed are sitting. When Connor sits next to them, Niles passes over a cup of their usual morning soup, and Connor accepts it gratefully.

“So,” Reed says after Connor’s first sip, “mind telling me what fire you lit under Anderson’s ass? He came out of that tent like a damned ogre was after him.”

Connor frowns. _Have you seen him since?_ he asks instead of answering Reed’s question; he’s certainly not going to discuss something of _that_ nature with someone that he doesn’t know and who wasn’t there.

Reed gestures with his spoon towards the woods. “Took off with some excuse about scouting ahead,” he says, returning his attention to his food. “Doubt he’ll be back for a while yet, red as his face was and how stiffly he was walking.”

Connor tries not to let himself feel unsettled by Reed’s prediction, but he can’t help frowning into his soup, something unpleasant churning in his gut. He can’t categorize it, and after a few minutes, he forces himself to stop paying attention to it, tuning in to the rest of the camp instead.

When Anderson eventually returns, breakfast is long over, and everyone else is in the process of breaking camp in order to move on with the journey to Denerim. Fowler pulls Anderson aside before Connor can talk to him, and Connor supposes that that’s for the best; they’ll have time to talk on the road.

He hopes.

* * *

His hopes go unrealized, however; Anderson keeps himself busy enough that Connor doesn’t have a chance to pull him aside, reassure him that, although embarrassing, Connor was not upset by what had happened this morning. Connor does his best not to let it get to him; he’ll get a chance to apologize eventually for his stupid idea about sharing a bedroll.

He and Anderson don't speak until mid-day, when the road brings them through a small farming village, and they are given a report about a possible apostate hiding in one of the abandoned farm buildings. After warning the village people to stay away from the area while they investigate, Anderson turns to Connor. “You and I are going to check the building itself,” he says. “Reed, Niles - you two run perimeter, make sure that the mage doesn’t escape if he manages to slip past us.”

Reed is serious for once, nodding before he and Niles split away, Connor and Anderson continuing directly to the building that had been pointed out to them. Connor pulls his staff out, keeping it at the ready as they approach the door with rusted hinges. “Stay behind me,” Hank murmurs, pushing the door open with his shield. Connor nods, doing so, and twitches his fingers, casting a glyph that puts a barrier over the two of them - an unnecessary precaution, as it turns out.

At first glance, the building is full of nothing but pigeons. Anderson splutters as several fly in his face, and Connor ducks under them, stepping into the barn and starting to look around. The main room is barren, but when Connor steps into what looks like a small storage room, he pauses in his tracks, snapping his fingers to get Anderson’s attention. He gestures towards the room once he has it, and steps back so that Anderson can see what he sees.

The walls of the room are covered with writing - most of it gibberish, the same phrases repeated over and over again - and the floor… The floor is singed. There are claw marks on the doorframe, and when Anderson swears under his breath, Connor nods. _I believe we are dealing with a possessed mage, not only an apostate._

“Fucking abominations,” Anderson growls. “Can you feel it?”

Connor focuses his magic, calling a small ball of it to his hand, imbuing it with a spell similar to that used to create phylacteries, modified for quick attunement in the field. It collects the magical signature in the room, hovering above Connor’s hand and growing warmer, sparks jumping from the surface to touch the blood, the claw marks, the ashy floor. Then the ball rises, hovering at eye level - and then darts away, Connor following after it. Anderson follows him, and the ball leads them out of the storage room and to the other side of the barn, where there is a broken ladder leading to what used to be the loft, and when the ball disappears over the edge of the loft floor, Connor doesn’t hesitate to send a burst of fire towards the loft, the aged wood catching the flame easily.

He and Anderson brace themselves, and aren’t disappointed when a screech cuts through the air, a blur launching from the loft to push past them, bolting through the door. A blast of ice puts out the fire, and then Connor and Anderson are chasing after the abomination.

Reed and Nines have cut off its escape. “Fear demon!” Reed calls over the field, already panting from the effort of swinging his greatsword through the air. A slight blue tinge covers his skin and armor, Niles’s signature barrier. Connor casts another over himself and Anderson, slinging a ball of electric energy from the head of his staff, smirking to himself when it explodes against the abomination’s back, making it screech.

The four of them settle into the rhythm of battle, Niles and Connor keeping the abomination occupied while Anderson and Reed work their way past its defenses. As the abomination grows weaker, its attacks grow less coordinated, more frenzied, desperate. It manages to dodge around Reed, then Anderson, and darts towards Connor, clawing hands outstretched -

Only to be met with an enormous blast of Fade energy, enough to bowl it over, stun it long enough for Connor to call electricity to his staff, sparks traveling across the surface as he steps forward, staff raised, and buries the blade of his staff in the abomination’s chest, releasing the energy he’d gathered at the same moment.

The abomination dies with a scream, and Connor braces himself against the magical shockwave that explodes from its body as the demon is returned to the Fade, its influence gone from its now-dead host. Connor bows his head over the corpse, says a quick, silent prayer as footsteps draw closer, and then offers Niles, Reed, and Anderson a half-smile.

 _Well done,_ Niles says, his own staff clipped against his back. Connor pulls his staff back, makes a face at the blood coating the blade, and gives his brother a broader smile.

 _Thank you. I remembered the last time we fought a fear-possessed abomination,_ he says in return, smirking.

Niles makes a face at him. _Yes, yes, you can stop bringing that up anytime now._

“There’s a story there,” Anderson interrupts, chuckling, “but we’ll have to ask about it later. For now, we need to see if we can determine who this was, see if there’s any family that needs to be contacted.”

That wipes the smiles from their faces, and Connor sighs. The worst part of possession, in his opinion, is informing the families of the possessed what had happened to their relative. Even worse when his blade was the one that shed their blood. _Agreed. It was hiding in the barn, we should see if we can find a journal or something similar there first._

“We’ll handle that,” Anderson decides. “You two go back to the rest of the company, tell them we found the apostate and what happened, see if there’s any other rumors we should investigate while we’re here.”

Reed and Niles nod, leaving Connor and Anderson alone. It takes Connor until they are back inside the barn to find the courage to reach out, lay his hand against Anderson’s arm, and pull him to a stop. _Are you alright?_

Anderson frowns. “That fight was barely more than a skirmish, so yeah, I’d say I’m fine,” he says slowly. “Why?”

_I meant with what happened this morning._

Anderson’s expression shutters. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, turning away from Connor, his shoulders hunching. “It was an accident, nothing more. It won’t happen again.”

Connor frowns, stepping in front of Anderson, forcing him to watch as he signs, _How can you be sure? I didn’t mind -_

“But _I_ did,” Anderson interrupts, scowling heavily - and even in the shadow of the barn, Connor can make out the flush threatening to overtake his face. “It won’t happen again because I’m going to sleep on the ground tonight. It’ll be fine. Let’s focus on trying to figure out who this abomination was before it got possessed, Connor.”

Connor hides his flinch at the harsh way Anderson says his name in his own turn, putting his back to Anderson as he heads towards the loft, using his magic to fix the broken ladder. If that is how Anderson wishes to react, to pretend that this morning never happened, and to put himself in such discomfort to avoid even the _possibility_ of it happening again, so be it.

Anderson is supposed to be his keeper, after all - not the other way around.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so this is basically the Dragon Age version of the Russian Roulette chapter from DBH, and this time I’m writing it from Hank’s perspective. So, here’s your heads up:
> 
> In this chapter, Hank uses alcohol and lyrium, and his thoughts through most of this are... not very kind to himself. There is also description of him basically being high off of lyrium as well, so be careful of that! Basically his whole headspace is seriously fucked up here, so proceed with caution, and if you feel at all unsure about how this chapter affects you, please don’t hesitate to hit that back button!

They find a journal in the barn, which gives them a name - Rupert. The events detailed in the journal are damn near heartbreaking, even to Hank, and he can see how this particular apostate fell prey to a fear demon. When they inform the village of what happened, none of them recognize the name Rupert, which is both a blessing and a curse, in Hank’s opinion. On the one hand, they don’t have to inform any potential family members - but on the other, they don’t even know if there _are_ any potential family members. Rupert doesn’t mention any in his journal, but it only starts three months ago.

They give Rupert his last rites, Connor and Niles grimly providing the fire for the cremation. Watching the flames burn down, Hank can’t help but sneak the occasional glance at the brothers - and if his gaze lingers longer on Connor, well, Connor’s his charge, isn’t he?

He finds himself wondering what the training process for saarebas is like; for Circle mages, there is years of study followed by the Harrowing. Is it similar for saarebas, he wonders? Is their resolve tested the way that the Chantry demands the mages in its lands be tested?

Hank assumes so, has heard - and now seen - how the Qun thinks of and treats its mages. Harsher even than the Templars can be, at least in the Circles the mages can have some semblance of a life of their own. The Templars are there to protect the mages from the world as much as they are to protect the world from the mages - but the Qun weaponizes their mages, leashes them and turns them into little more than magical mabari.

His gaze falls to Connor’s mouth, to the blue threads that cross his lips, and he can’t help the frown that crosses his own. The Templars would never do such a thing to their mages.

 _No,_ that snide little voice in the back of his head whispers, the one that hasn’t reared its head since he’d buried it beneath draught after draught from his philter. _No, the Templars would simply kill any mage who showed half the power you can feel in Connor and Niles._

Hank throttles the little voice back, turning from the dying embers back towards camp. He needs a drink.

* * *

One drink turns into two, into four, into a night of camaraderie with his company soured by the presence of two foreign mages, both of whom make him think too much, one of whom -

Hank drowns those thoughts in another drink, eventually stumbling his way towards the treeline, grunting an excuse to Knight-Commander Fowler about his leaving, whistling for Sumo, one of the mabari they traveled with, to join him.

He makes a stop by his tent for his philter and another bottle, and then continues into the woods.

He doesn’t go far, not enough to lose the company, but enough that he can barely hear them. Sumo is happy for the exercise, the great big hound trotting through the trees with his nose to every bush, occasionally barking at some small woodland rodent. When Hank finds a suitable stump, he settles heavily onto it, briefly curses himself for leaving his armor at camp, only bringing his sword.

 _Stupid decision,_ his mind whispers, the yawning chasm in his gut aching wider. _Do you want to die? Do you want some bandits to find you, decide you’re far enough away from camp to be an acceptable risk? Sumo is loud, yes - but he’s a dog, you’re just one old, fat, drunk, lyrium-addicted -_

The voice finally quiets under the rush of lyrium.

Soon, the rest of the world follows, the sounds of the woods muted under the song of lyrium in his veins. Hank loses himself to it, lets the hum of it drown out his thoughts, his feelings, everything but itself.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he used his philter, but when he hears shuffling footsteps nearby, hears Sumo bark, feels the flare of magic in the world - he reacts instinctively. His will _flexes,_ steels the world around him against the intrusion of magic, and when a shocked gasp reaches his ears, he can’t help but smirk, rising (unsteadily) to his feet, one hand on the pommel of his sword, turning to face the mage who thought that they could get the drop on him -

Only to freeze when he recognizes Connor, staring at him with wide eyes, his lips parted, fear and uncertainty writ clear across his face.

It sends a lance of ice through him, as clearly as if Connor _had_ lashed out with magic, attacked him while he was high off of lyrium.

“Connor, I - “

This time it’s Connor’s turn to flee, one last, fearful glance cast at Hank’s sword, glowing brightly at his side as the world remains cloaked in that unnatural stillness that only Templars can impose. Cursing to himself, Hank forces himself to relax, relinquish his hold on the lyrium and on his sword, hands clenching into fists at his side for a moment before he reaches up, tugs harshly at his own hair.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

* * *

By the time Hank finally drags himself back to camp, full dark has fallen, and everyone except for the night watch has retreated to their tents. Hank hesitates before entering his own damn tent, mindful of the magic he’s already come to recognize as Connor’s on the other side of the cloth wall.

 _And where was that damned recognition earlier?_ he scolds himself before sighing, lifting the flap and letting Sumo into the tent, hoping the dog might provide some kind of barrier between himself and Connor. He hopes against all reason that Connor is asleep - but he should know his own luck would never allow for that.

Connor is wide awake, sitting cross-legged on the bedroll, frowning heavily at the book in his lap; Hank gets a brief glimpse of this right before Sumo bounds up to Connor, almost bowling the saarebas over in his excitement to meet a new person. Connor lets out a startled noise, too close to that same shocked gasp he’d made in the woods earlier, and Hank’s throat threatens to close itself off.

 _You’re supposed to take care of the poor kid, and you’ve not even known him for forty-eight hours and you’ve already made him fear for his life._ Hank really fucking hates that voice in the back of his mind, but sometimes… Sometimes it’s right.

Connor at least seems pleased to meet Sumo, once he’s over the shock of a two-hundred-pound mabari launching itself eagerly at his lap. Hank hovers by the entryway as he watches Connor pet Sumo, scrubbing his hands down Sumo’s sides with a noise not unlike an affectionate coo, a smile replacing the frown he’d been wearing when Hank had first entered the tent.

After another moment, Hank clears his throat, suppressing a wince when Connor’s expression immediately closes itself off as he makes eye contact with Hank. He clears his throat again, and barrels on, needing to get the words out before he chickens out. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” he says, holding up a hand to stop Connor when his own raise, poised to provide some kind of response. “It was - inexcusable, using my abilities like that. I was drunk, lost in my thoughts, but I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did when you came near. I’m sorry for frightening you.”

Connor’s frown is back, but it’s thoughtful this time. _You reacted as if you expected an attack,_ he says, hands moving slowly, the same way another person might speak when they are thinking about what to say as they are saying it. _I was only making a light. You’re an experienced Templar, surely you knew the difference?_

“I did - do,” Hank sighs. “Which is why I have no excuse for how I reacted.”

Connor appears to consider that as he returns his attention to Sumo, giving the impatient mabari more affection before he finally speaks to Hank again. _Your sword did not leave its scabbard, so there was no harm done,_ he finally says. _I would ask that you pay more attention in the future, however._

“I will,” Hank swears, and he means it - He’s got issues, a lot of them. He knows it, his company knows it. But he can’t let them affect his job, and he certainly doesn’t want to ever put that look of fear on Connor’s face again. He doesn’t examine the reason why, just accepts it for now. He can examine that tomorrow, when he’s not half-drunk.

Or just ignore it, the way he usually handles things. Either way.

_Good. Are you coming to bed?_

Hank blinks. “I - I told you I’d be sleeping on the ground.”

Connor raises an eyebrow, looks pointedly from Hank to Sumo to the floor of their already-small tent and back again. _I believe the mabari will be taking up most of the ground room,_ he signs, a wry twist to his lips. _Unless you want to go sleep by the main fire…_

Hank really should do that, should call Sumo back - or offer to let him stay with Connor, since Connor seems so taken with him - and leave the tent, sleep propped up against one of the logs they’d used for seating earlier in the evening. He really _should,_ but…

_Come to bed, Knight-Captain. I told you I wasn’t bothered by this morning, and we’ve a long day’s walk ahead of us tomorrow to continue on the way to Denerim._

Damn it all, Hank’s still just a weak, selfish bastard when it comes to pretty mages. “Alright,” he sighs, undoing the belt that holds his scabbard at his hip, stepping further into the tent. “Scoot over, Sumo.” Maybe if he starts out on his other side, he won’t wake up practically humping Connor in the morning.

Hank falls asleep far quicker than he would have expected, and his dreams put him at the island once again, surrounded by that thin green fog, the occasional flash of blue luring him deeper into the center of the island, the haunting feeling consuming him, telling him that if he just walks fast enough, turns the corner quick enough, he’ll find -

He’ll find something worthwhile.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny little chapter this time, just a little bit from Connor's POV and about the dream sharing before we shift back to Hank's perspective and really kick things off plotwise!

When he wakes on his second morning in Fereldan, Connor finds himself once again wrapped in the Knight-Captain’s arms, though this time his face is pressed against the other man’s chest, his arms tucked against his chest. This position puts just enough space between them that Connor cannot tell if Anderson has the same…  _ carnal  _ reaction as he’d had the morning before. Remembering Anderson’s reaction the morning before, Connor lets out a quiet breath, allowing himself to relax into Anderson’s hold, feigning sleep. He won’t let Anderson know that he’s awake, he decides. If this is going to happen, perhaps it’s best that Connor simply let Anderson think that he’s unaware.

As the sounds of the others waking drift through the tent, Connor lets his own mind wander, drifting as the warmth from Anderson at his front and Sumo at his back lull him closer to sleep once more. He’d dreamed again, he remembers. Anderson had been there, and he’d seemed almost  _ aware _ of what was happening, and that concerns Connor greatly. He resolves to talk to Niles about it once they get a moment to themselves; his brother was much more familiar with the workings of the Fade than he. Perhaps he has some clue as to  _ why _ this was happening, and whether it was truly anything to be concerned about. So long as Anderson never catches up with him, perhaps the dreams will eventually stop?

Connor is drawn from his musing when Anderson groans, clearly feeling the effects of his… indulgences the night before, and Connor makes himself remain still, relaxed as he can, ensuring his breathing remains even as Anderson sucks in a sharp breath.  _ He’s just realized, _ Connor thinks, but he keeps his eyes shut, waiting for Anderson to move.

He doesn’t for several long moments, long enough that Connor almost breaks his ruse more than once, but eventually, Anderson’s arm shifts, carefully lifting off of Connor’s waist. The rough skin of his fingertips catches against the cloth of Connor’s night shirt, and he ruthlessly throttles the not-so-tiny part of himself that wants to feel Anderson’s fingers against his skin. Anderson moves away from him in slow increments, and it’s a struggle to not chase his heat, to let himself relax as though he were sleeping, let his arms drift slightly away from his body and take advantage of the space Anderson has freed between them. 

Connor waits until Anderson has left the tent before he finally opens his eyes, blowing out a hard breath. Sumo stirs as he shifts onto his back, sitting up, and Connor reaches out to pet him absently.

Yeah, he really needs to talk to Niles. 

* * *

The company is on the road again by noon, and after a couple of hours’ travel, Connor finally finds his opportunity to talk to Niles. Reed and Anderson are preoccupied with talking to Fowler about their route, whether or not they are on time, if they should push on further, so Connor feels confident in catching his brother’s attention, lagging behind purposely until he and Niles have some semblance of privacy.

_ I need to ask you something, _ Connor starts.  _ About dreaming, and the Fade. _

Niles raises one eyebrow.  _ What’s happened? _

_ I’m certain that I’ve shared dreams with Anderson twice now, _ Connor explains, hands moving rapidly.  _ That is dangerous, isn’t it? _

_ It can be, _ Niles replies, his expression thoughtful.  _ Did you interact? _

_ No. I think… he knew that I was there, but didn’t know who I was? Just that there was someone nearby. I don’t think he dreams the way that we do. _

_ Of course not, you and I have had far more practice, _ Niles points out.  _ I would be cautious, Connor. You know the Fade is dangerous, and you only invite trouble inviting him further into your dreams. _

Connor makes a quiet, frustrated noise, mindful of the Templars around them.  _ I’m not planning on inviting him, I’d rather he not be there at all! _

Connor doesn’t like the significant look that Niles gives Anderson.  _ Are you certain? He is -  _

_ A Templar, brother.  _ Connor punctuates his sentence with a smack to Niles’s arm and a glare.  _ And my handler.  _

Niles gives him an apologetic look.  _ Of course. You may be able to ward him from your dreamspace, _ he suggests.  _ Force him into his own dreams, and not yours. _

_ Perhaps, _ Connor allows, turning the idea over in his mind.  _ I will see what I can do tonight. _ Anything else he might have said is cut off when Reed looks at them, gaze clearly suspicious, and Connor turns his attention to ensuring that he does not trip as he walks; the last thing he needs is an injury so stupid as a twisted ankle.


End file.
